“Yes,” said Bayle softly.
“I worshipped that girl, Bayle. It was for her sake I came over here to this horrible pandemonium, to watch over and be her guardian. I could not have stayed away. But I must go now. I can’t bear it; I can’t stand it any longer.”
“You will not go,” said Bayle slowly.
“Yes, I tell you, I must. It is horrible. I don’t think she is ungrateful, poor child; but she is being brutalised by companionship with that scoundrel’s set.”
“No, no! For heaven’s sake don’t say that!”
“I do say it,” cried the old man impetuously, “she and her mother too. How can they help it with such surroundings? The decent people will not go—only that Eaton and Mrs Otway. Bless the woman! I thought her a forward, shameless soldier’s wife, but she has the heart of a true lady, and keeps to the Hallams in spite of all.”
“It is very horrible,” said Bayle; “but we are helpless.”
“Helpless? Yes; if he would only kill himself with his wretched drink, or get made an end of somehow.”
“Hush!” said Bayle, rather sternly; “don’t talk like that.”
“Now you are beginning to bully me, Bayle,” cried the old man querulously. “Don’t you turn against me. I get insults enough at that scoundrel Hallam’s—enough to make my blood boil.”